


Dead Run

by ChipAndDealer



Series: Skipping Hogwarts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Isn't Trauma Fun, Librarian Hermione, One Shot, Stranger Harry, Time Loop, Time Travel, Time Travelling Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChipAndDealer/pseuds/ChipAndDealer
Summary: It was a man at the door, and he walked in with an odd mixture of extreme self assurance and that same social fear she'd shown, herself, only a moment ago. His hair was black and stringy, looking clean but not altogether cared for, like parts of it had been burnt or cut away with a blunt knife. His face was young, like hers, but incredibly worn, like he'd been driven to exhaustion a few too many times. The suit he wore was nice, expensive, definitely, but draped over his nearly skeletal form like he'd never even consulted a tailor.He took off his hat, grey to match his coat, and held it against his chest. "Hey, Hermione, do you mind if I talk to you for a bit? I just need some advice."Stunned, she gestured an arm, stepping back to allow him into the library proper, instead of just the doorway. "How did you know my name?"
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Series: Skipping Hogwarts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030644
Comments: 16
Kudos: 280





	Dead Run

Hermione Granger lived alone. She had one cat, a calico named Crackerjack that had already lived longer than most cats should have. Crackerjack was a replacement for Crookshanks, which was itself a replacement for Carmicheal, a tabby her parents had rescued when she was just a little girl. Her parents liked taking in lost things, from time to time, birds, cats, dogs, even children separated from their parents they'd help back to them.

If she really thought about it, Hermione supposed that tendency to take in lost things was one of the reasons she'd taken the position as head librarian for Chetham's in Manchester. Every time a book came back, it was like one of those lost cats mewling at the door, and she'd take it in, finding where it was meant to be. That was one of the reasons, at least. The main reason was just how terrifically she loved books. For so long, books were her favorite thing in the world, for what seemed like longer, books were also the only thing.

Hermione Granger lived alone. No friends, no family. Her parents had passed in a bridge collapse a number of years back, and she had no siblings or aunts and uncles. By that time, she was already an adult anyway, so she had finished school and went off to find a job.

It turned out, though, that the 'no friends' portion of her school experience extended to more than just making that a private slice of hell; it also proved an effective block against getting employment in what she'd actually gone to school in, that being magic.

It sounds ridiculous, of course, but Hermione Granger was a witch, as she'd learned at eleven years old. She had magic powers, and the opportunity to go to a special school to learn all about it, she gleefully accepted. She was good at it, naturally. There wasn't anything she set her mind to she didn't work her fingers to the bone attempting to master. Magic was no exception. Honestly, by anyone's measurement, she was probably the most gifted witch of her age.

But that didn't hold much water when, in seven years of school, she hadn't been able to get a single person to so much as use her first name. She almost wished the legendary Harry Potter had actually shown up to school like he was supposed to, at least then she'd have stood out a little less, maybe seemed less intimidating. But who was she kidding? There was no Harry Potter, and all the rumors saying he was supposed to be in her year were nothing but silly gossip she'd already outgrown.

So, no legendary hero, but there also wasn't the apocalyptic return of Voldemort the rumor mill churned out every couple years, either, so she'd take the bad with the good. An apocalypse might have been a good chance to make friends, though, so Voldemort was still on her 'unfavorable' list just for not showing up. If he staged his grand return and started blasting some of the incessant schoolyard bullies then even better.

She didn't remember their names, not anymore at least. That'd be giving them too much power over her. She wasn't even at a magical job, so the likelihood they'd actually arrive at the library was close to none. They were childhood bullies, and they should remain in her childhood, that was her opinion.

Her therapist had other ideas, but Hermione was pretty sure she'd hired her to disagree with her opinions, so that was all to plan. Hermione looked down at her watch, purely mechanical, noting the time. She'd be seeing her therapist again, soon, and idly she wondered what they'd be talking about, when there was a solid knock on the door.

The library was open, so the door wasn't locked, but Hermione graciously opened the door anyway, almost shirking away from the figure, whoever it was. A lifetime spent around books instead of people had done much to cripple her social skills, and her confidence in those same skills were even lower.

It was a man at the door, and he walked in with an odd mixture of extreme self assurance and that same social fear she'd shown, herself, only a moment ago. His hair was black and stringy, looking clean but not altogether cared for, like parts of it had been burnt or cut away with a blunt knife. His face was young, like hers, but incredibly worn, like he'd been driven to exhaustion a few too many times. The suit he wore was nice, expensive, definitely, but draped over his nearly skeletal form like he'd never even consulted a tailor.

He took off his hat, grey to match his coat, and held it against his chest. "Hey, Hermione, do you mind if I talk to you for a bit? I just need some advice."

Stunned, she gestured an arm, stepping back to allow him into the library proper, instead of just the doorway. "How did you know my name?"

"I really mucked this one up, I'm afraid," he said, pointedly not answering her question. "Honestly, this whole run is a wipe." He looked up, seeming to notice his surroundings for the first time. "This is nice."

"The Chetham's library is the most-" she began, ready to riff off the standard history lecture she'd prepared some time ago, when people were interested in the building, but not interested enough for how truly in-depth she could go.

"I guess you miss Hogwarts, huh?" He interrupted, not cruelly, more like he was distracted. He placed his grey hat on the hatrack by the door, but it slipped off and fell to the ground a moment after. She wasn't sure he even noticed.

When his words reached her, she gasped. "You're a wizard." How did he find her? Granted, she wasn't particularly hiding, but this man didn't seem like any of her old classmates. Oh, who was she kidding, she wouldn't be able to pick out her old classmates out of a lineup containing them and muffins.

"I'm a wizard," he agreed. "You're a witch. And I really need your help." He hovered, not literally, over a chair, like he wanted to sit down, but couldn't quite bring himself to just yet.

"What do you need my help with?" She asked, warily. Maybe it was the strange situation, maybe it was how he'd still never answered her question or introduced himself at all, or maybe it was the fact he was a wizard, alone. When he asked for help, it was like she was back in school, one of her classmates trying to foist their homework onto her, and her being so eager for friends she'd agree. The thought turned her stomach. "And why should I help you?"

The man ruffled his hair, the distraction in his stance seeming to worsen. "Sorry, I've never had to do this with you, before. I must seem a bit mad, don't I?"

"Yes you do," Hermione agreed, flatly. Her filter had never been the strongest, in the best of times, and the sudden appearance of this strange, nonsense speaking, man had brought her solidly out of sorts. "Slow down a bit, have a seat, and tell me your name," she ordered and, shockingly, he obeyed.

Sitting in the chair, finally, instead of waffling over it for the past few minutes, the man visibly relaxed. Hermione found herself letting out a sigh of relief at the sight. She couldn't imagine a man as tightly wound as he seemed to be. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Ah," was the noise Hermione made. This man was crazy. Really, she should have figured it, but with the magical world already having so many strange and impossible things, she had at least given him the benefit of the doubt when he'd walked in spouting random words and phrases. "Well, the library is closing soon," a lie, "so, I'd appreciate it if you departed immediately, Mister... Potter, to give me the chance to lock up," and slip out the back door.

"I know you don't believe me," he said hurriedly. "But please, hear me out. If you let me explain and still don't believe me, I'll walk right out that door and you'll never see me again, I promise."

Hermione sighed, but retook her seat gesturing for him to continue. For all the crazy he was, the man seemed genuine in his promise to leave once he'd said his fill. There wasn't anyone else in the library at the moment, which she should have realized was strange in itself, but she let him tell his story.

"I guess I should start with what happened this time through, and then work my way back," he said, more to himself than her. "Voldemort killed my parents when I was a baby. There was a prophecy that basically said I had the power to defeat him, so he went after me. My mother activated a blood curse when she died, and his assassination attempt on baby-me got rebounded and killed him. All the fame I get for killing Voldemort shouldn't even be mine, my mum's the one that really did it, at least, the first time." He sighed, looking exhausted after barely even starting the story. Hermione supposed she got tired when talking about her parents' deaths, too. "Have you ever heard of a horcrux?"

Her mind flicked through her time at Hogwarts, searching for references to the word. "It's a form of soul magic, I believe." She knew, actually, but none of the books ever went into much detail, even in the restricted section, so she could afford feigning some small amount of ignorance.

"The worst form," he asserted. "It lets you split your soul and place it into something else, giving you a way to come back from death, live forever as long as the soul containers aren't disturbed. To do it once was considered so horrible, even mentions of horcruxes were struck from all but the rarest and darkest books, so, naturally, Voldemort did it seven times."

Hermione gaped. If what he said were true, and it was a little too specific to be the mere ravings of a madman, that meant Voldemort was practically impossible to kill. "So, if I believe you are actually Harry Potter, you're saying what you were doing all these years, instead of going to Hogwarts, was finding out about these 'horcruxes' Voldemort is using to keep himself alive?"

"No," he answered, flatly, reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing a faded brown leather bag that, naturally, had no right to be that size fitting in such a small space. Without preamble, he upended the bag on the table, seven objects in various states of disrepair scattering onto it. A book, some jewelry, a goblet, more, some of them sliced in half, some pierced, others burned, all destroyed in some manner. "What I've been doing is killing Voldemort."

"These..." Hermione picked up the book, its pages blackened by what must have been a tremendous fire. "Are Voldemort's horcruxes? How did you find them all? Surely, Voldemort wouldn't have kept them in the same place, that would have defeated the purpose of splitting his soul so many times to begin with."

He chuckled, nervously, scratching the back of his head. It was hardly the image of a great hero she might have expected, if she believed him. "This is where the story gets a bit mad, I'm afraid. You see, this isn't my first time finding all the horcruxes and killing Voldemort, it's my..." he trailed off for a minute before laughing, a little manically. "I guess I don't remember how many it's been, now."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, skepticism radiating off her body. "Explain," she said, icily. If he didn't get to the point soon, she'd shove him out the door, promise or no promise.

He sighed. "The first time through, there was a war. Voldemort was reborn, somewhere between half and two thirds of wizarding England was destroyed. You, me, and another boy named Ron Weasley tracked down Voldemort's horcruxes and destroyed them." She must have made a face at the mention of the name, so he added, "I'm sure Ron's been a right prat, but you were friends, once. You usually are, actually, it's just..." he shook his head, returning to the story. "We stopped Voldemort, together, but with how many people died, you kept trying to figure out a way to do it over again and, eventually, you did."

"You're saying I invented time travel." Hermione rolled her eyes as she said it. She wanted to make absolutely sure he realized just how ridiculous that sounded.

He shrugged. "The wizarding world already has Time Turners."

"That isn't even real time travel, though," she corrected, striking a lecturing pose. Mad or not, this man couldn't be walking around ill-informed. "It's-"

"Simple fate manipulation projection, in line with the Heron Principle," he finished for her, the action made disturbing by just how exact the words were to her own. "You've given me that lecture more times than I can count."

"Alright, let's say I did invent time travel," a preposterous notion, but entertaining, "are you here because you want me to invent it again?"

"No, that part's already covered," he looked away when he said that, like he was somehow afraid she'd ask for details. Since he was probably making it all up, that made sense. Hermione chided herself. He was definitely making it all up, no 'probably' about it. "I really came here because, for all the times I've done this, every time I go back, trying to stop Voldemort, save everyone, you've always been there to say... to tell me what to try next." He gestured to the discarded pile of destroyed objects. "Voldemort's gone, again, but it's not good enough. Skipping out on Hogwarts isn't good enough."

Hermione frowned. The man was beginning to get agitated. Normally, she wouldn't be worried, since her wand was always nearby, but he was definitely a wizard, which complicated things. "I'd imagine attending Hogwarts limits your movement," she said, creeping subtly toward the phone so she could ring the police. "You managed to take down Voldemort without it escalating into a war, as you said it did the first time, or even something big enough to warrant an inclusion in the Daily Prophet. Sounds like a success to me, what was wrong with it?"

He hesitated. "It just wasn't good enough. It's a dead run and we need to try something else, that's all."

What an incredibly frustrating man. "You don't actually expect me to offer a suggestion for what to do next when you can't even explain what went wrong this time around." She was close to the phone, and he hadn't noticed quite yet. "Did any of your friends die?"

"Not... really," he hedged, still not looking at her.

"His supporters, then, did anyone dangerous escape?" Her hand slowly stretched toward the receiver.

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure I'd caught them all," he said, exhaustion leaking into his voice.

Her hand closed around the receiver, glacially lifting it off the hook so it didn't make a sound, and placing it on the table. He was a very sick man. She'd ring the police, and they'd know what to do with him. "Well it sounds like a resounding success. Don't know why you're so keen on going back and trying something else." Her hand reached toward the '9' on the phone.

He mumbled something.

She pressed 9. "What was that?"

He mumbled again.

"I can't hear you when you talk like that," she said, a bit annoyedly, the heat in her tone masking the pressing of 9 once again.

Her finger hovered over the button for the third and final time when he spoke again, this time understandably. "I didn't want to leave you like this."

She paused, her finger a few centimeters away from that final, damning, button press. "Leave me like what?"

His eyes met hers again, really looking at her for the first time. "Alone."

Her finger dropped away, crossing with her arms like they'd shield her from the word. "That's none of your business. You don't even know me."

"I know that your parents were dentists, and you'd never had chocolate before Hogwarts. When you told me the first time you tried it was when I got you sweets for Christmas, I started giving them to you every year, buying new and interesting kinds, to the point whenever I saw chocolate, I'd think of you." He said it with such confidence, but...

Giving her sweets for Christmas, that never happened. She'd never met him before.

"I know you love books, nonfiction, because you hate lies so much. I know at your old school, people used to tell lies about you all the time, and no matter what you tried, you couldn't convince them of the truth." Her fingernails cut into her palms as she squeezed her hand into a tight fist. "I know you keep a list, when a book makes a mistake, or was written before new information came out, so you always know when it lies. You'd never write in the book, but it's always hard for you to trust a book on the list once it's lied to you."

He was just a lunatic, a liar.

"I know sometimes you get angry and want to hurt people, hurt them like they've hurt you, and I know once you started learning magic how scared you were that you would; that one day you'd snap, use all those powerful hexes you were learning, and be carted off somewhere dark and cold, and your parents wouldn't even care."

"My parents would have cared," she snapped back, weakly, unable to deny the rest, those dark thoughts he'd plucked impossibly from her past.

"I know," he allowed, "and you know. But it still didn't stop the nightmares."

"How do you know all this?" She asked, stumbling back into one of the bookshelves, their spines digging into her own. He did know, as much as she tried to deny it, these weren't simply guesses.

"A woman named Bellatrix Lestrange captured you during the war. She was insane, and tortured you for days just because she liked it." He wiped a sleeve across his eyes, breathing deeply. "After the rescue, when you were recovering, you told me how sure you were that you'd end up like her. Because when you punched Draco Malfoy in the face, when you cursed the sign up sheet and saw Marietta Edgecombe with those painful spots, when you fought and hurt and killed, you liked it, too."

"I'm not a monster," she whispered.

"I never thought you were a monster," he said, forcefully. Then it was like all the energy drained out of him, and he collapsed into his chair, reaching a hand up to rub at his eyes. "I'm sorry, this isn't... I don't... I didn't mean to scare you," he decided, eventually. "I just wanted you to know that I do know you, even if it's not quite 'you'." She stayed quiet, and he sighed, dejectedly. "The plan was perfect, yours usually are. Nobody died, there wasn't a war, but when I looked for you afterward, I didn't know where you had gone. None of the papers you'd always written, none of the jobs that you'd loved, I couldn't find any of it. I had no idea where you were." He shook his head, ruffling his hair in frustration. "But, fine, I was willing to accept it, to live in a world where you didn't even know me, as long as you were happy."

He looked at her, green eyes seeming to pierce through her, her mind and heart. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, to get him to leave or stay, she wasn't sure which, but no sound would come.

"But you're not happy," he stood, back straight, those same eyes locked with a determination she'd only ever seen in her cats leaping toward their prey. "So the run's not good enough." He would give up success in a war he'd been fighting for longer than he even remembered, he would give up a perfect victory, no trauma, no casualties, for her. "I need you to tell me what to try next."

He loved her.

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? Dealer writing something that isn't a crackship for once? Absurd. Don't worry, I'll balance it out with some sweet Snape/Rita Skeeter some other time. :p


End file.
